


I Was Worthy

by doctorcaslock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Dark, Dreams, Lets Write Sherlock, M/M, Nightmare, Past Drug Use, Sherlock is already dead, Song Lyrics, Suicide, TRIGGER WARNING: Suicicde, death by overdose, trigger warning: drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorcaslock/pseuds/doctorcaslock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is for the Lets Write Sherlock Challenge 3, which is write a fic inspired by a song. This fic was inspired by 'Sleep Alone' by Two Door Cinema Club.</p><p>After getting shot, John gets these dreams whenever he falls asleep. In these dreams a mysterious man with icy blue eyes and a long dark coat taunts him. Soon, John befriends him, and wonders whether which world he would rather life in, the real world or within his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please note that the tags/warnings may change as I write this, as I do not have any idea where this is going. Hope you enjoy c:

He sleeps alone.

* * *

_He sees nothing in front of him. It is complete darkness, but he knows someone is here with him. He hears the scuffling of feet. The sound neither approaches nor recedes; it seems like they follow a path that surrounds him._

_"Who's there?" he asks, squinting his eyes until they are almost closed. Even still, the darkness hides whatever surrounds him._

_The scuffling pauses, only for a minute, before they continue. He turns around, facing the source of the footsteps, until suddenly an explosion of pain radiates from his shoulder. He yells in agony, gripping the pain, and falls to his knees. Once on the floor, the area around him lights up as fire erupts from the ground. The searing pain in his shoulder matches the heat of the flames, licking his arms and torso, the blinding light hurting his eyes. He manages to opens his eyes just a bit to see the fire surrounding him. The air almost hums with the heat, but in front of him he can see the source of the footsteps._

_He is a tall dark shadow of a man, with eyes icy blue, contrasting to the hot flames. He stares at him, wrapped up in his long black coat. His dark curly hair hangs just a bit around his face. The two pairs of eyes lock on each other, and he can feel the pain ebbing away, until the figure finally looks away, and with a dramatic wave of his coat, he disappears into a cloud of smoke._

_He begins to call after the figure, but the severe pain returns at double its intensity as before, and the flames roar and grow around him. He falls forward, and with only one hand to support him, he lands awkwardly onto his stomach. He coughs against the smoke and heat from the fire, and soon he rolls over on his back. The pain spreads throughout his body, into his head. He feels his brain throbbing, and his vision blurs..._

* * *

John lets out a sigh. He hears voices, but they are so distant he cannot make out what they are saying. Behind his closed eyelids, he can faintly make out that people are moving above him, giving the swift shift in light intensity. He feels his body move, as if he is being carried. His shoulder burns, like in the dream, but it is a dull pain, as if his body tricked him into thinking that he has been given morphine. He makes a mental note to thank his brain later. He feels someone taking off his helmet, then his army jacket, eventually exposing his chest.

"Just stay with me John, you'll survive this," says a voice. He doesn't know who says it, thought he feels like he should. He arches his back and lets out a yell when a pressure is set upon his shoulder. "Easy John, it's alright, now this is going to hurt," the voice sounds reassuring, but it still feels far away. John feels a sharp prick into his right arm, and he is unable to open his eyes. Instead he drifts into a deep, deep sleep.

* * *

_John looks around him again. It is still dark, but not as dark as before. There is a light from an unknown source, and from his waist down, purple smoke drift lazily across the ground. He holds onto his shoulder again. The pain is not sharp, but rather a dull throbbing. Still, the pressure he applies makes it more tolerable. His breathing is quick, and he looks around him. There is nothing surrounding him, but again, he feels someone is there with him._

_"Hello?"_

_He receives no answer, so John decides to walk. The smoke dances around his legs as they disturb it. He knows that he should feel nervous about this place, but for some reason, he feels oddly at peace._

_He catches a movement out of the corner of his vision. He turns to his right, and sees that the smoke ahead of him moves the same way it did when he was walking through._

_"Who's there? I know you're here," his voice is loud with confidence. They can't hurt him if he can't see them, but John's curiosity always gets the better of him. When the source of the smoke's disturbance doesn't answer, he drops his arm from his shoulder and marches forward, forgetting about the pain._

_He finds a trail in the smoke, and ahead of him, he can see the end of a long black coat, disappearing into the darkness. John stands up straight and pauses at his discovery. He remembers the man with the ice-cold eyes from before._

_"Hey, wait!" he yells, and he runs forward._

_His speed increases along the path made by the man in front of him, but whenever he sees the coat in sight, his feet become cement blocks, and slow down until he is out of sight. This cycle repeats itself, with John speeding up and slowing down, until the smoke calms down. He lost him._

* * *

Three days later, John finds himself back in London with a star shaped scar on his shoulder and a limp. He also comes back with the confusion of his dreams. Every night, he finds himself in the same situation: darkness surrounds him with thick smoke dancing around his feet. He hears the footsteps of the stranger ahead of him, yet he only sees the very tips of his mysterious coat. John calls out to the stranger, yet he hears no response from the darkness ahead.

He now lives in a small, quaint flat in London that his army pension can temporarily cover, but luckily for John, he is able to find a job in a small clinic a couple of blocks away from where he lives. The hours are long, but he is thankful for keeping himself busy. He doesn't know what he would be doing otherwise.

John also sees a therapist, which is normal for any soldier of war. She tells him everything he already knows, and it has come to a point where he just humors her.

"How have you been, John?" she asks, giving John a look of expectation for an answer, rather than concern.

"Oh good, good." John is usually on autopilot during these sessions, and says what he thinks the therapist wants to hear. Instead, she lets out a soft sight and scribbles in her notebook. John watches her write, but doesn't say anything.

"How has your blog been?"

"Brilliant, actually."

She narrows her eyes at him, and the side of her mouth twitches upward in disbelief. "You haven't written a word, have you?"

John watches her scribble her pencil again. "You just wrote 'still having trust issues.'"

"And you're reading my handwriting upside-down. See what I mean?"

John just scoffs.

"John, trust me when I say that writing down everything that happens to you during the day will ease the stress, and you will feel a lot better."

At this John laughs out loud, "Nothing happens to me." He thinks about his dreams. He thinks about the darkness, the smoke, and about the stranger with the ice in his eyes. He doesn't say anything to his therapist about his dreams. 

* * *

_The grass that John stands on sparkles like the night sky as beads of dew make their temporary homes on individual blades. The sudden brightness forces John to shield his eyes against the light, and soon he realizes that the sun is out. He looks around him and discovers that that smoke is gone. He steps forward, unaware of the fact that the pain in both his leg and shoulder are absent. The trees above him give his eyes relief from the sun for only a moment until he leaves their cover. He finally makes it to a path. He is in a park, a park far away from his small quaint flat in London. This is the park he and his mother and sister would visit on the weekends when he was a child. At the same time he realizes this, he sees a small family of three ahead of him: two children and their mother, all enjoying a small picnic in the park._

_John smiles at the memory. Why he is here in his dreams he has no idea, but for now he will accept this pleasant gift. He takes a step toward his past life, when he feels an eerie presence behind him. John takes a deep breath, for he has a sinking feeling who might be making this feeling crawl over him. He slowly turns and his assumption is proved correct. In the shade of one of the trees in the park, stands the stranger. The dark, tall figure that pierces John's very soul with those eyes of ice. They stare at him now, looking from John's head all the way to his toes and then back, then behind him towards the family still enjoying their early lunch._

_John wants to say something to him. For weeks this man has been haunting his dreams, just out of reach. Now that he is finally there, standing very still in front of him, John is at a loss at words. Thankfully, the stranger is the first to speak._

_"Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

_John blinks a couple of times, confused that the first question the stranger asks is something that he should know. He is inside John's mind, and John would think then that he would know what has been going on his in waking life, but then again, dreams are always covered in a blanket of confusion. He shifts his weight a bit and licks his lips before answering._

_"Afghanistan, but wouldn't you-"_

_"I am not a part of your dream, John Watson, but a traveler amongst dreams. Therefore, I only know you through your subconscious and fuzzy images your brain has created through rapid eye movement. I have no knowledge of your waking life." The way the stranger says this is like a speeding marquee of a local newscast listing the less important news headlines. John is finding it difficult to follow what he said, but he is able to understand the main point: This man is not of his dreams._

_"Oh," is the only thing he can say. Behind him, the children run and play tag, while the mother chases after them with a camera. The sun climbs higher in the sky, and the dew on the grass returns to their vapor state. Even in a dream, John can feel the heat grow as the sun's rays beat down on his back. Still, looking at the stranger gives him an icy chill down his spine. "How, then, would you know I was on duty?"_

_"I have followed you for some time, John Watson. There have been reoccurring dreams that take place out on the battlefield. These dreams were not as vivid as the dreams that followed you being shot, which then turned into dreams full of completely nothing. You have just been sent home, given the fact that your dreams have been going back to 'normal,' for lack of better terms. I have been traveling through dreams for a long time, but I have been able to find out the latest current events and then it came down to Afghanistan or Iraq." He exaggerates the 'q' of Iraq, and the sharp sound leaves John in an awkward position, trying to put all of that together. Before he could ask, however, the stranger continues. "I find your mind-" he says, looking around the park. John notices that he doesn't shield his eyes as he looks directly at the sun in the sky. "-Rather interesting, surprisingly enough. Usually, the mind of a soldier can be dull, but the state of your dreams change at an alarming rate I have not seen in a long time."_

_At this moment, both John and the stranger lock eyes. They both know time is running out. John is waking up. "When was the last time you found a mind interesting?" John asked quickly. "Also, what is your name?"_

_The stranger smirks. "The last interesting mind I have been in was the mind of Sherlock Holmes, which, coincidentally, was my own mind."_

* * *

John stares angrily at his computer screen. The large bold letters at the top of the page yells  **THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON**  in all caps. The ugly layout is an even uglier green color, and he winces every time he looks at the small icon that shows his own face. The counter shows less than a dozen hits, and the follow list consists of one follower, which, to no one's surprise, is John's therapist. The small text cursor blinks, and John imagines it tapping impatiently on the table, waiting for him to type out words. His desk is empty, and the only light is from the open window on the adjacent wall. The white noise of city life leaks into the flat, calming John’s mind. 

After what seems to be hours, but in reality only a few minutes, John gives up on his blog. The most exciting thing that has happened to him today was a child throwing up in the clinic's bathroom, and even though he should put something down on his blog to make his therapist happy, he is sure that she doesn't want to read about that. Then something else pops into his mind. He closes out of his blog and opens a new page to Google. He types two words into the search bar:  **SHERLOCK HOLMES.**

The results are not what he expected. First, he finds results, period. Then, he finds a page discussing 'The Science of Deduction,' where apparently, this Sherlock Holmes is a Consulting Detective, ("Whatever that is," John comments under his breath) which specializes in deduction. John reads that Mr. Holmes can tell a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his thumb. John continues through the site, which includes questionable articles on even more questionable subjects, until he gets to the bottom of the page, where he realizes there has been a mistake on the website. The tense is wrong. Sherlock Holmes  _was_  a Consulting Detective. Sherlock Holmes  _used_  to specialize in deduction. The only thing Sherlock Holmes  _is,_ is dead.

The site itself does not go into any detail, only that this page will no longer receive updates, and that the owner of the site is no longer with us. John backs out of the site, returning to the Google results, and looks at the other links. He finds a link to an obituary, which he immediately clicks on. It is short, and holds no emotion behind the text.

'Sherlock Holmes, died 16 March 2009 of drug overdose. Was found alone in his flat by brother older by 7 years, Mycroft Holmes. Was 30 years old.'

At this John's heartbeat increases. Is he dreaming of a ghost? He knows that the human brain is unable to think up of human faces by itself, and that the faces one sees in a dream is always someone he has seen at one point or another in a waking life, but just to be sure he looks up his face anyway. He holds his breath while the picture loads, and he lets it out with a humorless laugh as those clear eyes stare back at him through the screen. John runs his hands through his hair, unable to fully believe what he has discovered.

He looks at the digital clock on his desk. The thick red lights display 11:34pm, and John can feel his eyelids getting heavy. He closes his laptop and puts it in the desk drawer. He quickly goes through his bedtime routine and after putting an empty tea mug in the sink, he turns off the lights, locks the door, and drifts off to sleep.

* * *

_The street John stands on is vacant and cold. The smell of rain hangs heavily in the air and the glow of the street lamps reflect off the wet pavement. Above, the sky is clear, and the stars take their seats in the sky as they watch over the Earth. John soon recognizes this street as his first home away from his parents. It is located in a small town, just outside of London. One prominent memory is associated to this street, and it is happening for the second time in front of John._

_The police tape is bright in the dark of night, and the lights on the police cars are flashing red and blue. People in the houses on either side are peering from behind the window curtains, wanting to watch as well as trying to stay hidden. From where he is standing, John can hear the voices of the cops, but he is unable to make out what they are saying. He walks forward and approaches the scene._

_The first time this was taking place, John was watching from his bedroom window. This time, he is able to walk past the police tape unnoticed and gets a good look at the dead body on the street. The man was lying on his stomach, arms and legs bent at odd angles, and his face was turned to the side, eyes wide open._

_“You may not have seen me, but this was one of the first cases I worked on.”_

_The voice behind John makes him jump. He stands up to face the only person who acknowledges he presence._

_“Sherlock Holmes.” John simply states. He remembers he is talking to someone who has been dead for 4 years, and a shiver runs through his spine._

_Sherlock smirks, and looks past John towards the body. As he does so, John does some quick math in his head. “Wait a minute,” he says. Sherlock ignores him as he crouches over the body. “That means that you would have been 19 when this occurred.”_

_“Oh good, he knows math.” Sherlock said, not looking up. “Do you know what happened to this victim?”_

_John tried to remember back to this moment. He looked up at the window that was once his, and very faintly he can see the shadow of his younger self. He takes another deep breath, trying to accept all of this-_ But wait a minute, _he thinks_ , none of this is real. It’s all a dream. _The fact that he had to reassure himself that this is a dream only puts him more on edge._

_“Please, just tell me who you are.”_

_Sherlock sighs, seemingly annoyed that he won’t be able to tell how he solved the murder of this victim on John’s old street, and stands up. “Very well,” he responds, and snaps his fingers._

* * *

John snaps his eyes open. His flat is still dark, and the street light outside shines through the slips in between the closed blinds over his window. John’s breathing is fast, so he lies on his bed, facing his ceiling, before he calms down. He is covered in cold sweat, so he pulls off his uncomfortably wet shirt and throws it into onto the floor as he makes his way to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

He greedily gulps down half the cup before-

“So where would you like to begin?”

John begins with spitting out the water that is in his mouth. Then he drops his cup, which is thankfully plastic and only bounces on the floor with loud echoing crashes. Finally, he slowly makes his way into the small living room and there, standing at the now open window, is Sherlock Holmes. He does not have his large coat on, only a suit, which looks very expensive to John. He turns from the window and looks at John expectantly, only to turn into mild shock as John remembers that he has no shirt on.

But he doesn’t worry about that now. There is something more important to worry about, like the ghost that is standing in his living room.

“What?”

Sherlock only rolls his eyes. “The beginning then. Oh John please, you are looking foolish. You wanted me to explain, here I am. It will be much easier to do so when you are awake so we don’t have any interruptions, like you waking up.”

John gulps, and walks through the spilled water into the living room without taking his eyes off of Sherlock. Sherlock watches his as well. He waits until John takes a seat on the couch, but John remains standing in the doorway, close to the exit. Finally, he brings his hands together in prayer formation and begins.

“You already know everything you need to know about me from my life. I have high observational skills that I used to help the police when they were out of their depth, which is always.” He pauses, and once more looks at John. John tries to stand his ground under Sherlock’s strong ghostly stare.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t know what to believe, the fact that there is a bloody ghost standing in my living room, or that simple observations from you solve seemingly impossible cases.”

At this Sherlock laughs, his eyes reflecting light from an unknown source, “What a range of concerns, John Watson. As for the second half of your statement, despite being only in your mind, I previously know little about you, but now-“ he give John another look, and it is at this moment that John regrets not putting a shirt back on, conscious mainly on the bubbled skin radiating from his shoulder. “You have a psychosomatic limp after you were shot in Afghanistan. You have one sister, but you don’t talk to her much, if at all. Your mother has passed away some years ago and you father years before that, probably before you were born. You keep a strict daily routine and ignore your therapist’s suggestion of keeping up a blog.” He finishes with a smirk.

John is silent for a moment, and soon Sherlock’s confident posture drops just a bit. “This is still a dream, right?” John asks with a smile, “This is all still a dream.” He pinches his arms a total of five times. Then he leaves Sherlock behind and runs into the kitchen, where he turns on the faucet and places his head underneath the running water. He stands up again and blindly reaches for a face cloth hanging over the handle on the oven, and dries his face. With a relived sigh, he returns to the living room, now fully awake, and-

-Sees the ghost of Sherlock Holmes waiting for him. His eyes bore into John’s once more. “I assure you John Watson, that you are not dreaming.”

John feels weak in the knees, and finally he heads for the couch. Sherlock stands above him, not knowing what to do. He seems to shift his weight, refreshing his composure to continue to explain himself, but each time he looks down at John, sees how confused, and small he is, his mind must be reset.

“Listen,” John finally says. He stares at a crumb on the ground, determined to not look up, “Give me a day. Just one day, and two nights of sleep where you don’t fall into my dreams, where I don’t see you at the other end of a crowded room or on the opposite side of the street. Tomorrow, more than 24 hours, I will hear your story.” he looks up to Sherlock, who no longer looks intimidating, but vulnerable. “Does that sound somewhat reasonable?”

Sherlock blinks, and swallows. He looks at his hands before looking back at John. “That sounds reasonable, yes.”

John is taken back at the sudden change in the ghost. Many nights John saw him as this mysterious being, but now he looks… human.

“Thank you.” John looks down at the ground again, trying to hide the small smile on his face, “I really mea-“ he looks up again, but now he only stares at empty space.


	2. Chapter 2

John was relieved to fall into a sleep so deep that not only did have not have any dreams, but when he woke up, he forgot that he existed at all. It took him until after his shower and brushing his teeth that he remembered his ghostly visitor last night, and when he did, he almost dropped his toothbrush into the sink.

He had to pause what he was doing in order to gather his thoughts. He had a conversation with a dead person who seemed to make a home in his dreams. He remembers that they have made a deal saying that Sherlock would leave him and his mind alone for 24 hours, at least.

He is heading out the door when his cell phone goes off. With a sigh, John answers.

“Hello?”

“John?”

“Yes, Harry what is it?” Making his way down stairs, he checks his watch. 7:30 in the morning. She must still be drunk from the night before.

“Wow, hello, little brother. Anyway, I haven’t heard from you since you came back home. I was thinking that was should get dinner or something tonight.”

John thinks about it as he waves down a taxi. True, he hasn’t called his older sister since he came back to London, but there was good reason: he didn’t want to. Every time they did get together, she would get drunk and cause a scene, embarrassing John and herself.

“Come on John,” she says, and there is something in her voice that told John she was being, or at least trying to be, sincere, “I thought I lost you forever. Please, just one dinner.”

John doesn’t say anything for a moment. She is right though; he did almost die, the least he can do is spend one night with her. He glances out the window of the cab, watching the morning rush of London pulse like blood through veins. _Well why not,_ he thinks.

“Okay,” he says into his mobile, and on the other line he hears Harry’s smile.

“Great John! Thank you. So, around 8 then? Angelo’s?”

The cab stops at a red light. John is about to answer his sister when he sees him. On the corner, people push passed him, but Sherlock Holmes stares at John, right through his soul. John blinks a couple of times, making sure he is not going crazy, but the dead man from his dreams still stands there. Sherlock doesn’t move, and when a tall man holding an umbrella walks pass, he disappears.

“John?”

John catches himself with his mouth wide open, but soon he recovers, agreeing to Harry’s suggestion and hanging up the phone. His shoulder begins to throb, only a little, but he still pushes his hand against the scar tissue, relieving the sensation, if only a little bit.

The cab pulls over on the side of the road in front of the practice John works at, and with a muttered ‘Thank you,’ he pays the driver, grabs his cane, and shuffles out of the vehicle. He glances down both sides of the road, looking for any wisps or smoke from his newfound friend (friend? A simple nuisance, maybe, but no _friend_ ), but finding nothing, John limps inside.

* * *

“John let’s sit by the window.”

Harry and John sit in the booth at Angelo’s at 8:30pm. John knew this night would be a disaster- he ca tell that Harry was already a few drinks in. He also knew this because she was late. This caused John to patiently wait outside the small Italian restaurant for 40 minutes, the extra ten minutes because John likes to be somewhere some time early, and having his leg in excruciating pain.

Harry talks about her ‘eventful’ day, discussing her current problems with Clara, which is why she is already halfway to becoming drunk. John doesn’t listen to her because he has heard all of this before; he does give Clara credit though; she has been with Harry for the longest out of her past relationships, both female and male (though she has not been with a man since she came out to John and their mother, which has been years ago). They do love each other, and Clara wants nothing more than to cure Harry from her alcoholism, but when things begin to look like she is cured, they get into a huge fight, and she falls off the wagon once more.

John can only humor her after they order their dinner and she continues. He is relieved though that her being drunk only causes her mouth to go into overdrive, as opposed to anything else. _I can’t jinx it, I won’t jinx it,_ John thinks, as he takes a sip of his water and raises his eyebrows in response to the climax to Harry’s current rant (“And then he has the BALLS to tell me that I am the problem! Can you believe that?!”), _but thank GOD tonight is running relatively smoothly._ Little to John’s knowledge, but at that moment, the night does take a turn, but not in the way he would expect.

Harry finally finishes her latest story about her and Clara’s episode in Tesco when their food arrives.  They both fall into silence, their mouths busy chewing the delicious Italian. John has a mouthful of pasta when he glances out the large window to his right. He almost chokes.

Across the street, Sherlock Holmes watches him with the same expression as before. He does not move, nor reacts to John noticing him. People walk pass, and on occasion _through_ him, but the ghost is still. They lock eyes for what seems to be an hour.

“John?” Harry asks him, glancing out the window. “John, you okay?”

John doesn’t say anything. Outside, Sherlock turns away, walking down the street away from the restaurant. John quickly takes the napkin off of his lap and shuffles out of the booth.

“Sorry Harry, uhm- I’ll be right back.” He says quickly. He doesn’t hear Harry calling after him, trying to tell him he forgot his cane.

John sprints out the front door of the restaurant, only to almost get hit by a car, he yells an apology to the surprised and angry driver as he continues across the street. He keeps his eyes on the black coat in front of him, and he cannot help but think back to his early dreams, where the darkness surrounds him and the flicker of a coat is just out of his reach. Instead, bright lights move past him in a blur, above from streetlamps and below from the cars driving past. He moves between people having a nighttime stroll in the city. The distance between him and Sherlock close as he is thankful that he feels no difference in his speed. All of a sudden Sherlock takes a sharp left into an alley, and John almost trips as he turns as well.

John stops running. He looks ahead into the dark alleyway only to see that a brick wall stands twenty feet ahead of him. He curses out loud, foolish for falling for a mind trick played by a ghost. He looks around him, trying to see if there were any crevasses Sherlock might have slipped into, or if the ghost will appear behind him. Failing to find anything, and still out of breath from running, John deflates a bit and returns to the restaurant, where his drunk and confused sister waits.

* * *

_John opens his eyes. It is his small bedroom. There is nothing out of the ordinary, except that it’s dark. Unnaturally dark. He opens his eyes as wide as they can get, trying to pick up any light that has survived the dark invasion. He moves his hands a bit over the soft blankets on his bed, and yes, this is his room. The dark makes him feel uneasy, not having experienced anything like this for some time. He remembers the last time, the sudden explosion in his arm and the large flames that licked his skin._

_He hears movement in his small room, near where his door should be. John sits up. “Who’s there?” he asks, but he knows exactly who it is. The movement continues, careful steps move from the doorway and towards his bed._

_“It’s okay John.” His deep voice interrupts the darkness, and John feels the pressure of someone sitting on his bed. He sits up, needing to see something, anything,_ him, _in front of him. The pressure moves up from the foot of the bed, until John can feel the breath of a ghost on his face._

_John doesn’t know what to do. He is frozen in shock confusion, and anticipation. He can feel the iced eyes staring at his, the hot breath coating his face. Just inches away. And then a hand is raised and covers John’s cheek, and the next thing he knows is being pulled forward._

_Almost unsurprisingly, Sherlock’s lips feel as cold as his eyes look, yet it is only heat that radiates through John’s body. All doubts are pushed out of his mind, and he welcome’s Sherlock eagerly, returning the kiss with some force. Sherlock crawls forward, pushing John onto his back. Neither says a word, which is reasonable, given that their mouths are a little busy at the moment, but their hands hold a conversation all on their own. John moves his hands up, tangling his fingers through Sherlock’s unruly hair, while Sherlock’s hand moves from John’s face to his neck, then down his chest, until-_

John sits up in his bed. This time, the light from the streetlights outside sends shadows through his empty room. He is covered in sweat, and out of breath. He looks around the room, making sure it is in fact empty, and curses at the familiar lump in his sheets. He falls back onto his pillow, trying to regain some normalcy in his body.

“What the fuck?” he says to the ceiling. The ceiling doesn’t respond, and John is sure that it is simply staring back, judging him. John covers his face with his hands. Sherlock told him, he _promised_ him, that he would leave him alone for the next 24 hours. Not only did he break his promise, but also he did so in a way that left John totally uncomfortable.

 _But,_ a little voice rings in John’s ear, _you did not hate it._

“Fuck off,” John warns, but only being a small voice in his mind, it continued.

_One might even say that you enjoyed it._

“It was just a dream,” John said out loud.

Just a dream.

Sherlock Holmes is just a dream.

It’s all in his mind.

His eyelids become heavy once more, and he repeats _only a dream_ until he sinks into slumber.

* * *

John doesn’t awake until almost noon the next day. When he does, he stays in bed for another half hour, not wanting to get up. Thankfully, he didn’t have another dream of any kind, but _the dream_ still has him a bit wired up. Finally he does get up and takes a long relaxing shower, letting the hot water (and, for a few minutes, ice cold) run down his body, cleaning off the dream-induced stress that has been building up.

Clean and relaxed, John goes into the kitchen to make some morning (or lunch, rather) tea. Instead of being surprised, however, to see the ghost of Sherlock Holmes in his expensive suit waiting for him in the kitchen, John curses to himself, as well as having the memory of the _dream_ return.

“John,” Sherlock says, in the same deep voice. The sound travels through John’s body, and all the stress returns. Instead of making this moment more awkward, John takes the ‘I’m pissed off’ route.

“No, I don’t want to talk to you.” He says ignoring the chill he gets when he walks through Sherlock (quite literally) and turns on the kettle.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock says behind him. John doesn’t want to turn around.

“You said you would leave me alone,” he begins, giving the kettle and angry stare, instead of Sherlock. He can’t bring himself to look into those eyes. “You promised.”

“I did leave you al-oh,” Sherlock says.

Confused at his abrupt stop, John finally turns around to see a smug look on Sherlock’s face. “What?” John asks. “I saw you yesterday, while I was having dinner with my sister. I left her behind in order to talk to you, but as always, you fled. And then-“ John paused. They both knew what happened in _the dream_ , and John didn’t want to go into any detail.

Sherlock looked at him, and he let out a low chuckle. “John Watson,” he said, making John more furious. God, that voice. “I did leave you alone. I never entered nor came near your mind. Anything you saw,” he gave a dramatic pause. John cursed to himself, remembering Sherlock’s skill in deduction. Oh he knows what John dreamt of, all right, “or dreamed, that was all you.”

John doesn’t say anything. Behind him, the kettle whistles, as if it too realizes what just happened. John glared at Sherlock before turning it off. With slightly shaking hands he finally takes a sip of tea, letting the warm liquid take his mind off of the waiting ghost, if only for a second. John doesn’t say anything as he makes his way into the small living room. He feels Sherlock follow him, but he still stays quiet. He sits on his comfy chair.

“Okay, then,” he says. Sherlock is still standing, but he has a glitter in his eyes, knowing what John is going to say, “Explain.” He drinks some more of his tea. _This is going to be a long day._ “How did you know so much about me?”

“It’s obvious, really,” Sherlock began, bringing his hands up to that same prayer position, “First, I know you have a psychosomatic limp because when we were first talking when you were awake you were standing, seeming to forget about the pain in your leg. Then, and I just found out now, because you just told me moments ago, you ran through the streets of London. I also noticed the absence of your cane.”

John looks around, realizing that he did forget his cane at the restaurant. When he couldn’t find Sherlock, Harry called him telling that he had to go. She paid for the bill and took his cane, because she did not know where he was. John thanked her and went straight home, because at that point he was actually closer to home than Angelo’s.

“I know your family history by your apartment,” John looked around the small, almost empty living room they were in, “Looking at your few pictures tells me you are not really close to your family to begin with. The pictures you do have are all old, because you look significantly younger in the frames than you do in person. By looking at your age in these pictures tells me that there are no recent pictures with you and your mother, and none with your father. Your body language with your sister shows that you two were never close.

“You’re strict routine is shown through the lack of personality in your flat. There are no decorative pictures or trinkets; this is only a place to live for you.”

John just stares at him. Sherlock looks back, and John notices that the longer he doesn’t say something, the more Sherlock loses, though only slightly, his confidence. His shoulders drop just a bit, and John sees that his eyes begin to look down.

“That was,” John said, looking at his cup of tea. “Brilliant.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Well, when you explain it, it does seem obvious, making my feel like an idiot, but still. Amazing.”

If Sherlock were alive, John would bet that he would be blushing at this moment.

“When I was alive, Sherlock said, and John smirked, having his thoughts repeated out loud, “People never said that about me.”

At this John’s smirk disappeared quickly, and when he looked at Sherlock again, he saw that same vulnerability appear. An awkward silence grows between them, but John remembers something that has been bothering for some time.

“Now who, or what the fuck are you?” John sees a small smile on Sherlock’s face, but too quickly it disappears, causing John to wonder if it was even there to begin with.

“I admit, that when I was alive I had a substance problem, and in the end, it took my life, but it was the way that I died that gave me this ability. My brother took me in and tried to cure my addiction to drugs, but his way of going cold turkey did the opposite of what he wanted. In a fit of withdrawal, I trashed every bathroom in his unnecessarily large home, and I found some sleeping pills.”

Sherlock stopped for a moment, remembering his death. John didn’t say anything. He saw the cruel irony of the sleeping pills, and Sherlock’s ability to jump through dreams.

“I can move through people’s dreams with ease, but it only takes a few moments before I get bored. I can also choose when people see me. I told you, John Watson, that I have seen your dreams for some times, and you have only been able to see me recently.”

“But I can see you now too. I’m not dreaming now, am I?” John asks.

“People are always dreaming, they can just tell the difference between dream and reality. You being able to see me now-“

“Wait,” John stops him and stands up, “Are you telling me I am going insane?”

“I am not saying anything John, I am saying, however, that you are able to see me while you are awake because your mind has been affected by trauma. In your case, it was the war. Whether you are going ‘insane’ or not is up to you.”

John gives Sherlock an offended look. “I’m not going insane,” he simply says.

“Whatever you say,” Sherlock responds, and like that he disappears. John takes that action as Sherlock mocking him. He takes his mug from the table and puts it in the sink in the kitchen.

“You know-”

The mug slips out of John’s grip as the voice behind him startles him once more. “MUST you do that?!” John yells, and turns to Sherlock. This time he is fully equipped with coat and a blue scarf.

“Apologies, but I was wondering… You are a doctor, correct?”

“Yes,” John says, unsure where this is going.

“Any good?”

“Very good, in fact.” John squares his shoulders.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet?”

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much.”

Sherlock smirks. “I often travel into the current Detective Inspector’s mind when he rests. There is currently a case of a serial killer that is wide open; no one knows what is going on. Now I ask, want to see more?”

John hesitates. “You can do that? Bring… bring me with you?”

“Of course, only if you want to though, as you say, all of this is in your head.”

John’s pulse quickens, excited and scared all at the same time. Can Sherlock really send John through to someone else’s dreams? Well, only one way to find out.

“Oh God, yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

_John follows Sherlock to an area unknown to him. He knows that they are still in London, however; John just has never been to this area. The building they are walking towards is almost barricaded by police cars and an ambulance. Yellow tape cuts the area off from the public, but a few officers still stand guard, preventing any journalists from passing. John looks around uneasily, while next to him Sherlock looks straight ahead, his icy eyes knowing exactly where to go._

_"People only know what they see, because they are fast asleep." Sherlock says. Ahead of them, a man catches their eye and pauses his conversation with another officer._

_"What?" John asks._

_"People see, but they don't observer. Dreams are linked to peoples subconscious. This means that in their dreams, when people are in a location they have been in their waking life, their brain will remember every detail. In Detective Inspector Lestrade's case, he is able to come up with the exact replica of a crime scene. I visit him in his dreams, take a look around, point out everything that he has missed, and he takes what I tell him into the waking life and solve the case.”_

_John was only able to think about what Sherlock said, because by the time he finished explaining, the Detective Inspector reached the pair of them. He shook hands with Sherlock, and glanced over to John._

_“Who’s this now?” he asked._

_“He’s with me.” Sherlock simply said, and with a shrug, DI Lestrade motioned them to follow._

_“The body was found in the pool this morning, about” he pauses to look at his watch, “It’s ten o’clock at this point, so at 9:30, 9:40 about. Male, mid-twenties. We haven’t identified him as of yet.”_

_“Who reported him missing?”_

_“His girlfriend called last night, saying that he went to pickup some take out but after two hours he never came home. Five hours after that the janitor that cleaned the public pool reported a dead body in the water.”_

_John looked at Sherlock and was amazed at the Detective’s expression. At this point John has now found three sides to this ghost: the mysterious side, where Sherlock is void of all emotion or any hint that he is (or used to be) human at all, the vulnerable side, which John knows that Sherlock is very careful of hiding, but in those past two instances he let that side slip, and this side. The Consulting Detective. Sherlock did this as a living when he was alive, and John knows that this is very important to him. John can practically see his brain connecting clues and possibilities, creating and disproving theories that might have explained this young man’s death._

_The three of them pass by officers and they eventually get inside the building, where it is completely void of any other officers. John wonders how long Sherlock has been in Lestrade’s mind, because, unlike John, Lestrade seems to be used to Sherlock’s presence, and almost follows a routine with the ghost. Lestrade stays behind while Sherlock moves forward and inspects the body. John stays behind as well, unsure of what to do. Soon Sherlock stands up from the body and calls John over to inspect._

_“What do you think?” Sherlock asks him._

_“I think this is brilliant, really I do. How can I go through other people’s minds?”_

_Sherlock looks down, and for an instant, smiles, and John believes that he gets another glimpse at his vulnerability. But Sherlock lets out a light chuckle. “No, I mean the body, what can you tell me about the body?”_

_John feels his neck warm from embarrassment, “Oh,” he mumbles, and quickly kneels down. The victim lies on his back, with dark brown eyes staring lifeless at the ceiling. His mouth is slightly open. Switching into Doctor mode, John feels the skin on his hands and around his neck. He runs his hands smoothly though the victim’s hair._

_At first he is self-conscious; Sherlock stands above him, hands in their prayer position, watching him work, but soon he is too busy inspecting the body to worry about anyone watching him._

_He looks around, into the water where the body was found, and turns to Lestrade, “Did you find any blood in the water? Vomit maybe?”_

_“The janitor saw a little blood in the water when he called, but by the time we got here it was dissolved into the water.”_

_John nods at this fact and looks back to Sherlock, who asks, “Well?”_

_“I don’t think he drowned.” John said, and when Sherlock smiled at his statement, a warm feeling bloomed in his stomach. Pride._

_“I don’t think so either. Usually when a person dies, the water that enters their stomach and lungs causes them to vomit. Also, looking at his mouth and nostrils,” Sherlock kneels at the victim’s head, and John follows. Lestrade came forward at this point, and stands above them. Sherlock tilt the head upward, showing his airways. “John?”_

_“Again, usually when the cause of death is droning, a froth or foam builds up in the airways, as you can see they are clear.”_

_“Then how did he die?”_

_Sherlock licks his lips, and they stretch into a grin. “That’s the mystery, isn’t it? That’s why you need me.”_

_Lestrade lets out a sigh, “God, help me, but yes I do.”_

_Sherlock stands up. “Tomorrow, make sure you have his identity, as well as his girlfriend’s. I need to ask her questions.”_

_With that, Sherlock and John leave the pool. John thought they were finished, that Sherlock was going to let him wake up, but as he opened his mouth, John sees someone beyond the police tape, beyond the line of journalists and curious onlookers._

_“Sherlock?” he says, and Sherlock turns to see what he is looking at. The figure stands in shadow, and holds a mysterious aura just as Sherlock did when John first saw him. Something was different with this figure though; this figure holds some sort of evil around it. John feels a chill running down his spine._

_“Come on John,” Sherlock says, and he puts his hand on John’s shoulder to make him turn around. John glances once more behind him, only to find that the figure has vanished._

* * *

 

The next couple of days go through like a blur for John. During the day he continues with his clinic job, healing children’s boo boo’s and prescribing medicine for adults who just want to get better. He deals with the occasional phone call from his sister, which usually ends with someone hanging up. The dinner they had together went relatively well, if one ignores John running out. They both believed that their relationship was going to finally take a turn for the good, but, as per usual with John and Harry Watson, it would not last. Harry continues to complain about Clara, repeating the same speeches about her giving up on Harry, and John was just getting sick of it.

John finds himself trying to slip in naps as much as possible throughout the day. He does not see Sherlock when he is awake anymore, so going to sleep long enough to get a dream or two in is the only way he can see the dead Detective. They have been working on the case with the presumably drowned male. Sherlock was able to get names from people who have known the victim and they have both jumped through dreams, trying to figure out what has happened.

Some dreams however, are more gruesome than others. They are interviewing Justin’s boss, Justin being the victim, when John sees, out the window of the office they were in, that same figure they saw in the DI’s dream. At first, the figure does nothing, but as soon as John sees the figure smile a terrible grin full of needle like teeth, the boss claims to see the walking corpse of his dead wife, muttering nonsense and crawling under the desk.

The figure runs off, and Sherlock grabs John’s hand and pulls him after him and the two of them run out of the office. Once on the streets, they see that the figure running in front of them leaves a trail. With each step leaves a void like hole behind him like footprints in the snow. These footprints begin to smoke and expand, covering the surrounding buildings in a darkness that seems infinite. The figure looks back only for a moment, and John can see the pure evil in its black orbs what stand in for its eyes.

“Sherlock-“ John yells, Sherlock is only a few paces in front of him, “-who the hell is that?!”

Sherlock responds, “I have seen him in many dreams,” even though he is running at top speed, he does not sound out of breath, “Including yours, yet he always keeps his distance.”

They follow the figure through a maze of what seems to be alleyways, until they finally corner him at a dead end. John finds himself stepping in front of Sherlock in a protective stance. The figure faces them. His smile is still wide, showing off his many teeth. He flickers out a thin forked tongue.

“Finally Sherlock, we meet,” he says slowly in an equally deep yet more menacing voice than Sherlock’s. The sound doesn’t seem to come from the figure, even though John knows that he is talking. Instead the sound seems to be emanating from the walls, the ground sky, even from John’s own body. The vibrations come out of the darkness that ripple from where the figure stands, expanding up the walls and under John’s feet. Soon the darkness covers everything, and John and Sherlock stand in a void with the figure in front of them.

“Moriarty.” Sherlock simply says. John looks at the two of them.

“You know each other?”

Moriarty looks to John for the first time, and his grin grows even bigger. “Oh, John Watson. Sherlock made a big mistake bringing you here.”

Suddenly think black tentacles sprout from Moriarty’s back and they take a hold of John, twisting tight around his waist, chest and arm. They pull him tight and in the air, and John believes that he could not breathe.

“John! You need to wake up!” He can barely hear Sherlock shouting after him. “He is a nightmare, John! Remember, that this is only a dream!”

_A dream?_

_Only a dream._

_John closed his eyes, feeling the tentacles crush his rib cage, below he can hear Sherlock yelling, but he can’t make out the words. He finally chokes out a series of cough as he opens his eyes once again._

_Sitting alone on his bed, John looks around him. He is out of breath. “Sherlock?” he asks. There’s no answer, but he hears his phone beep with an incoming text. He glances at it, seeing a text message from his sister, but ultimately he ignores it. He throws his head back onto his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut and begging his body to go back to sleep._

_He needs to make sure Sherlock is safe._

_But he’s dead. A ghost._

_All in your head._

_John shakes these thoughts away. Sherlock is alive, oh so very alive. He is apart of John, and now that he has found him, he won’t lose him._

_He runs into the bathroom._

_John knows that he needs no army where he’s headed cause he knows that they’re just ghosts, just ghosts, and they can’t hurt him if he can’t see them._

_Blood pumps fast through his veins as he finds the pills._

_“I’ll find you Sherlock,” he says._

_He pours three sleeping pills onto his palm and then he stops. He stared at them, and thinks the same phrase in his mind,_ only a dream… only a dream.

But it feels so real to him. He feels more awake, more alive with Sherlock, than when he goes to the same clinic every day, dealing with the same patients, his sister. It’s all boring. Dull. Running after the nightmare, Moriarty, John felt a rush that he hasn’t felt since coming home. His therapist tells him that he is feared by the war, when in fact, he misses it. He can’t stay cooped up in this tiny flat anymore. He needs to run and defend, and that can only be achieved by being with Sherlock.

If he takes these pills, he will go the same way Sherlock did, and then they can both travel to places they have never been to.

“Well?”

John looks up into the bathroom mirror to see those ice blue eyes staring back at him.

“This is not you,” John said, “This is me creating you again, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, is it?”

“I have to save you. From Moriarty.”

The reflection looks down, “He has taken me, yes. But I am already dead John. You have so mu-“

“Oh shut it-“ John starts. He clenches his fists around the pills in his hand, “-what do I have to live for Sherlock? This is the best my life will ever get, living alone, working my ass off everyday only to come home just to fall asleep, and that’s the only time when I feel the most alive, when I’m with you!”

He turns around, only to see empty space. That moment everything makes sense in his mind. He runs into the kitchen and fills a cup with water. With shaky hands, he takes the pills.

He runs into the small living room and takes out his laptop and logs onto his still empty blog. He can feel the pills taking effect, and he starts his first and only post.

 

I don’t know if in the morning I will be here, and if so, let it be known that I was worthy.

I was worthy.

_I was worthy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I am 87.3% thinking of doing a sequel (cause obviously I cant leave you hanging like this!) so stay tuned! I will be on vacation for the next week so... maybe after that Ill get started. Or something... yep.


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